[Author’s Note: We're four days before Rin's encounter with Karkov.]
When Daryl awoke, he was handcuffed and in jail. He wasn’t sure what had clobbered him but suspected a taser. Whatever it was had been powerful, much stronger than the tasers he’d experienced back in the U.S. It occurred to him that this was not a normal thought to have.
The jolt had penetrated his abdomen, and the agony hadn’t let up while he remained conscious — which wasn’t long. Daryl examined his stomach as best he could. He remembered it as the epicenter of the shock, though he was well aware that pain often was displaced. For a system that had evolved to broadcast damage, nerves could be remarkably deceptive.
There was no visible scar, but he had several bruises. Had he acquired them while being subdued or were they caused by his convulsions? He doubted his assailants had bothered to beat him while he was unconscious. They would wait until he was awake and could feel it.
Were the bruises even new? It was quite possible they were souvenirs from Rin. Two small burn marks on his shirt caught Daryl’s attention. They signaled the likely contact points, though he didn’t understand how his skin remained unburnt. Perhaps the fabric diffused the heat? The points were a bit too closely spaced for a taser. A cattle prod? Who used those anymore? Well, probably a country with lots of cattle.
Daryl could tell he was in a holding cell rather than a dungeon proper. A much larger room filled with police desks was visible through the bars. Only two officers were present, and both appeared intolerably bored. Some sort of soap opera played from a TV in the corner.
Forgetting his disguise, Daryl called out in English that he wanted to speak to the U.S. Consul. He immediately regretted this. A harmless local would get better traction in a place like this. Then he remembered the big man with the placard. No, he wasn’t fooling anyone. They knew exactly who he was. They knew, but he doubted these local yokels did. They just were doing as instructed.
Come to think of it, why was he in an ordinary police station at all? Something was amiss. In reply to his demand, the nearest officer made an obscene gesture. When he repeated his request, the man rolled his eyes and stood. With an aggrieved air, he slowly made his way over, uttering a stream of profanities in dialect. Even Daryl only understood half of them. When the policeman reached the cell, he looked at Daryl and smiled. Drawing his keys, he put his hand on his gun but made no sign of drawing it.
“Fine, fine. Step back and sit down,” he said in broken English.
Daryl did so, and repeated his request in English. After such a mistake, the trick was to be consistent. The initial folly was less likely to prove irredeemable than some desperate attempt to rectify it. He had to keep playing the dumb tourist. Robbed. That’s what he was. He had been robbed and was left like this. But how would that explain the forged papers? Prank. It was a prank played on him by his friends. Those guys. Yes, that would do.
“I’m going to let you out to make a phone call,” the guard said, turning the key in the lock. He motioned Daryl to turn around, and quietly uncuffed him before holding the door open with a big grin. As Daryl stepped forward, the cop laughingly yelled something to his partner, eliciting a chuckle and a thumbs-up sign from him.
Daryl didn’t think the man actually would shoot an American tourist in the groin — it was the sort of decision that was above their pay-grade — but he wasn’t going to find out. Without a word he sat back down and held his hands out. For a moment, it looked like the policeman would backhand him across the face. Instead, he simply grumbled, handcuffed him, locked the cell door, and returned to his desk.
“I thought so,” the man barked in dialect. “Now, shut the fuck up. The seccies told me to keep you whole, but please give me a reason to slip up.”
Daryl nodded and lowered his eyes. Well, at least one thing hadn’t changed about home. However, the exercise wasn’t a complete loss. His handcuffs were in front now, and that could prove convenient if an opportunity arose. Sadly, one did not.
Daryl was transferred around several times over the next few days. During each move, he was transported in a bus with blackened windows and deposited in a different, but ordinary, jail cell. He never saw another inmate, which led him to wonder whether these really were ordinary jail cells.
He had no doubt that eventually he would acquire a roommate, though. This roommate would become fast friends with him, bonding over their mutual isolation and whatever else befell them. It was an old trick, but quite effective. People wanted to be liked, and people in dire circumstances were particularly susceptible to such manipulation — even if they recognized it for what it was.
In theory, Daryl could use their own tactic against them and coax information from such an inmate. But he was under no illusion that he could gain the upper hand in a situation carefully orchestrated to his disadvantage. They likely would use a real prisoner rather than an operative, a man who would befriend and inform and know nothing of use.
To Daryl’s surprise, no false friend materialized. Just an interminable sequence of disconnected jail cells. How many damned facilities did the country have? For an apparently prosperous nation, there seemed to be quite a few. Or maybe this was because of the prosperity? Now they could afford to incarcerate troublesome individuals rather than just shooting them. That certainly would draw less international censure and more tourist dollars.
As far as Daryl could tell, the United States only cared about the appearance of law and due process, while Europe mainly detested executions and public displays of brutality. As long as violence was well-hidden and there was some semblance of judicial process everybody was happy. Commerce could be conducted without any attendant opprobrium.
During the eighth transfer Daryl suddenly felt ashamed at his own stupidity. The whole thing was just another parlor trick: shuffling a prisoner back and forth between the same few places to disorient them. Well, it had served the intended purpose. By the time he found himself in the interrogation room, he had no idea where he was. There was no sound of traffic, so it could have been the countryside. Or just good insulation.
When a man finally entered, Daryl wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried. It was the same sergeant who detained him last time and had admonished him to go home. The man didn’t look any older, though it was hard to tell; his type was born grizzled.
It made sense that the same soldier would be brought into play. He was loyal, ignorant, and happy to remain so.
“I see you didn’t follow my advice,” the man grumbled.
Daryl felt embarrassed, as if he had let the man down. He was tempted to object that this actually wasn’t true and the message was not intended to be taken literally and he had gone home. But the sergeant clearly was oblivious to its hidden meaning.
“I suppose not,” Daryl looked down. “Sorry.”
“Well, that was then and this is now. Let’s deal with what is in front of us.” It was a surprisingly sanguine response, one a lawyer may have offered a client.
“And what is in front of …” Daryl began, lulled by the reassuring tone.
The sergeant slowly shook his head. “Shut up. You’re not the one asking the questions.” It was the anticipated cliche, but said quietly and without any fist-pounding. Daryl felt an odd sense of disappointment. But he knew the drill and awaited the first question and/or smack.
There was a knock on the door. The sergeant gave Daryl a pitying look and offered a curt “good luck” before leaving.
Some chatting could be heard from outside the room before the door reopened to admit a newcomer, who promptly sat across from Daryl. Though dressed differently than before, there was no mistaking the man.
Karkov smiled.